


Chapter and Verse

by poisontaster



Series: Books of the Living [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Confessions, Jealousy, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-02
Updated: 2007-01-02
Packaged: 2018-04-30 08:15:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5156642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follows right after Getting in the Game; Dean's hurt, Sam's hurt, and Dean's had enough of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chapter and Verse

They're arguing.

Feels like they're always arguing lately, but Dean doesn't know what else to do, especially when Sam goes and does damn fool things like, "…jump in front of a rakshasa!"

Sam's jaw is set, all hard edges and Winchester stubbornness, and his eyes are half-lidded, though the look he's giving Dean through his lashes is still heated enough to burn. "You were down." Just that. Nothing else, just that tone, puckered up as tight as a virgin's cunt.

Well. Sam had him there. "But not out!" Dean insists, then catches himself on the back of the room's threadbare armchair, his legs suddenly grainy and loose. Belatedly, he remembers that rakshasa's claws are poisonous. His voice is faint and weak when he says mildly, "Goddamn it."

Sam curses under his breath and steps into Dean, somewhere between pinning Dean to the chair's back and holding him up. He pushes Dean's jacket aside and curses louder when he sees the blood.

"I…I'm fine." Dean's not really sure he's anything of the sort, but it's been his line for as long as he can remember and he'd feel less himself if he didn't say it. They all have their scripts to follow.

"You're a fucking idiot," Sam retorts and his voice breaks a little on the end of it. The splintered edge shivs into Dean's ribs just as easy as the beastie's claws. Sam manhandles him around and then pushes him down into the chair. Dean grunts as it jars him and he can feel a new spurt of blood join the slow leak down his side. "Stay here."

"You're lucky I'm tired!" Dean shouts to Sam's retreating back as his brother goes in the bathroom and starts clattering shit around. It's not as fierce as he'd like, the thin spots showing through. Dean pants a few moments like a landed fish and then starts struggling out of his jacket. He gets his good arm out without too much trouble, but his left side's kind of weak and the adrenaline high's wearing off, which means he _hurts_. Doesn't stop him from trying, though.

Right up until Sam comes back with his armful of supplies and slaps Dean's hand away with another glare. "Quit it!"

Dean glowers right back at him, still capable of doing that much, at least. Sam holds up a syringe, taps the barrel a couple times and then plunges it into Dean's arm before Dean can muster up any kind of resistance. "What the hell is that?"

"Last of the fentanyl I swiped from that vet in Maryland," Sam answers calmly, crouched on his hunkers in front of Dean. He caps off the needle and tosses it onto the dinette.

"Aw, not that stuff," Dean whines, wriggling weakly in a completely unsuccessful attempt to lever himself upright. "It makes me all loopy."

"Yeah, that's not the drugs." Sam's tone is still taut, unhappy, as it's been ever since L.A., ever since Dean 'delivered a message' to that Gunn guy. Fucked him, more like, and Sam pissy and hurt and halfway to another planet ever since.

"Fuck you."

Sam's jaw flexes. "Not lately."

Dean spreads his hands, ignoring the twinge in his side as he does so. "Not my choice."

"Not mine, either." Sam's a little rough as he jerks Dean upright; thank God the fent is starting to kick in. Hard fingers tug Dean's coat off all the way and then settle him back.

"Bullshit," Dean says. It comes out softer—gentler—than he means.

Sam is cutting Dean's shirt apart; his eyes flick up briefly, naked and hurt, then play down, focusing on his task. He doesn't answer.

Dean knows this is his fault. He knows this goes far past him fucking some random dude in L.A.—with Sam's permission, mind you—and on into his dreams. Dean's stupid, fucking dreams.

He knows Sam got the short end of the stick as far as powers go. He _knows_ that. Dean thinks he'd've gone batshit insane a long fucking time ago if he had to put up with Sam's blood soaked visions. Some of the ghosts—spirits, really—that come to Dean may not be so pretty to look at, but their suffering is done and they're just running a few last errands before moving onto something different. Something maybe better. Dean can _handle_ that.

But he's not so sure that Sam could handle it if Dean just up and told him out of the blue that he's got this thing, too. Fuck, Dean's not so sure _he_ can handle Sam knowing. They have their scripts, but they have their roles too. Sam is the Special One. Dean is The Muscle. Dean likes the simplicity of that, and telling Sam…

Dean sighs. He knows his brother. Telling Sam will change all that. And given Broody McBrooderson's history, probably not for the better. Sam's a worrier. Always has been.

And yet.

 _Not_ telling Sam is putting a serious kink in Dean's sex life, not to mention his peace of mind.

"How many times can I say I'm _sorry_?" Dean flinches as Sam pushes the cut up pieces of shirt aside and puts a betadine-and-holy-water soaked pad hard against the wound. It stings and it bubbles and Dean feels crawly under his skin as the holy water goes to work on whatever's in a rakshasa's claws along with the poison. God, he hates this shit.

"I don't know, Dean, how many?" Sam grabs Dean's right hand and puts it over the padded wound. "Hold that there. Harder." When Dean's applying pressure to his satisfaction, Sam pulls the curved needle and suture thread from their kit.

Dean might be a little high on the fent and the venom; he can't look away when Sam flicks the lighter and runs blue-white flame over the needle. The flame deepens the hollows under Sam's eyes and turns them pupilless and reflective. Dark hair falls over Sam's forehead and Dean reaches to brush it away, obscurely afraid it will catch fire.

Sam ducks away, the lighter shuts off and Dean blinks away brightness. "Dean…don't. Jesus, you're going to set yourself on fire."

"I'm sorry," Dean says again. He doesn't know what else to say. He doesn't know what else Sam wants.

Sam shakes his head. His face is turned away, towards the half-ass yellow of the lamp as he threads the needle. There's only his hair and the sad line of his mouth and the hard line of his jaw. "It's not about sorry."

Dean's thumb makes circles against the pads of his fingers, feeling the softness where Sam's hair was. "I don't understand."

"I know." Sam's smile is tight as he turns back to Dean. "That's the problem." He eases Dean's fingers out of the way; Dean turns his hand to grab Sam's wrist.

"Sam." He doesn't hurt enough and he's not high enough to pass out and he can't leave and he's _bleeding_ for fuck's sake. He would think that would buy him just a little reprieve from Lord King Bitchface, but apparently not. "I… I just want to stop fightin', man. C'n we just stop…stop fighting?"

He's fading and he feels it. Under other circumstances, he'd be grateful. Right now, though, he feels vague and panicky. If he lets this dark wave swamp over his head, he thinks he might wake up to an empty room. Sam will disappear (leave) and Dean will be stuck with the ghosts that got him into this in the first place.

"We're not fighting, Dean," Sam says and he sounds gentler. Does he sound gentler? Dean thinks he sounds gentler. But it's a lie.

"M'sorry, Sammy. M' _sorry_." The needle bites into his side, cold and sharp. Dean inhales (more like a gasp) and tries to move away. Sam leans on him and Dean's too weak to fight him off.

"Hold still."

Dean looks down and sees the mess of his side and Sam sewing it up in neat little stitches and remembers. _That's_ why his side hurts. "I wouldn't've done it if they hadn't asked, Sam. I just… I don't know wha' else to do. Most of th'time, s'just words." Dean reaches up and fumbles his hand onto the crown of Sam's head. This time, Sam just lets it stay put.

"What is?"

"Th' messages."

Sam sighs. "Dean, you're not making any sense. Why don't you try and pass out, okay? I'll finish stitching you up and you can sleep here or something."

"Don't wanna." Dean tries to flex his fingers, thread them more deeply in Sam's hair, but he only manages a weak wiggle. "Want you. Always want you, Sammy."

"Heh. You _are_ loopy," Sam teases but Dean hears the bitter underneath it.

"I'm not that loopy," Dean insists, struggling hard to push the words out, make them clear. "S'not fair; e'vry time _you_ have a vision, s'all c'mon, Dean, let's go. And fu-fuck ev'rythin' else. But if _I_ got somethin' to do…"

"Your something to do was to go out and fuck some random dude you picked up in a bar." Sam's mouth is flat, dimples drawn out into lines. "It's not the same thing."

"Why not?" Dean demands, fighting to get some leverage in the chair and heave himself up. "Why's my…" He waves a hand. "…freaky brain stuff less 'mportant than yours?"

Sam stops sewing and looks up at Dean, his face flitting between too many expressions for Dean to guess them. "Are you telling me _voices_ tell you to go out and sleep with other people, Dean?" And now Dean can tell Sam's just being a patronizing son of a bitch.

"Not other people," Dean points out and the burning feeling of _pissed_ in his chest gives his voice strength. "Person. Haven't fucked around on you."

"Except that one time." And now we're back to bitchface.

"That was different!" Dean winces as his shout cuts through the fentanyl right into the half-closed wounds in his side. Ouch. "That was my _job_." He reaches for the gashes and Sam makes an impatient noise in his throat and smacks Dean's hand away then goes back to stitching.

"Dean. I just… Look, man, I know how you are. I've known how you are my whole life. I guess I was fooling myself to think it… To think it would be different once it was us."

" _I'm not fucking around on you!_ " If he thought he had the strength to make it count, Dean thinks he would've just decked Sam for that one because he's been _good_ , goddamn it, with tail shaking itself at him in every bar, diner and mini-mart across this great nation and every fucking day and night he's bringing his ass home to Sam.

"Jesus, why won't you just listen to me? S'not _about_ sex. It's about the goddamn messages. S'always the stupid messages. Them telling me weird ass shit like _It's in the back yard under the willow tree, Karen_ or _I always loved you best_ …and sometimes s'a big fucking deal. Like that Gunn guy. Sometimes you gotta actually grab a guy by the balls and say _wake the fuck up, man_."

The fent's not enough anymore; now he just hurts and Dean lets his head fall back on the arm of the chair, finally hurt and angry himself. "Think I wanted to do that?" he mutters. "Think I enjoy you lookin' at me like a kicked fucking puppy? Think I wanted…" Dean stops.

"Wanted what, Dean?" He can't read Sam's voice anymore. It's what he calls Sam's lawyer voice, all smooth and too slick to grab onto.

"I didn't ask for this," Dean says. "No more 'n you did. But they come to me with this shit…what 'm I supposed to do?"

"'They' who?"

"Spirits!" Dean sighs. "Christ, haven't you been listening? Every-fuckin'-where I go, spirits, talkin' in my ear, whispering shit. 'N I write it down. I write it all down."

"The postcards."

"Well, duh." Dean would roll his eyes if he wasn't afraid that would hurt too much too. "And then I get…whole _slew_ of them, tellin' me _Go to L.A. Find this guy._ " He looks at Sam suspiciously. Sam's smiling and he doesn't know what that means either. "M'not making this shit up, don't you laugh at me."

Sam shakes his head. "I'm just amazed you know what 'slew' means," he says. Dean makes a disgusted noise in his throat and turns his face away.

"I didn't ask for this, Sammy," he says again. His throat hurts and he blinks his eyes hard, feeling them, all wet and grainy.

"I know you didn't, Dean." The hand Sam's using to steady Dean's wound strokes lightly against Dean's skin, ticklish-sweet. "I just wish I didn't have to drug you to get you to tell me the truth about things." He pauses. "How long?" he asks. "How long's it been like this?"

 _Always? Forever?_ Dean shrugs, then hisses when it pulls against the stitches. Sam's fingers pet gently again, soothing.

"And Dad? Does…did Dad know?"

"Nah." Dean hates the hoarseness of his voice, clears his throat. "I never… I 'nly ever tol' one person."

"Who…" Sam trails off and Dean wishes that Sam wasn't so smart sometimes. "Mom. You told Mom."

"Yeah, 'n look what happened to her." He means it as a joke, except for the part where he doesn't, really. Not at all.

"Dean." Sam grabs his jaw with bloody, rough fingers and forces his face up. "Mom wasn't your fault. You know that, right?"

Dean scoffs but it's weak tea and he thinks Sam isn't at all convinced. Stupid fentanyl. Finally, Dean says quietly, "Tell me you don't…don't blame yourself." Sam's eyes flicker, his dimples deepen and Dean knows he's scored a point. "Then shut up 'bout it," Dean says and Sam sighs.

"All done," Sam says a few moments later, patting Dean's side. He cleans the last bit of blood and whatever away with another soaked wad of gauze.

"Thank God," Dean groans. Then he lifts his ever-heavier head to look at his brother through rapidly crossing eyes. "Don' want you mad at me, Sammy."

Sam nods, suddenly very interested in the cotton balled up between his stained fingers. "I'm trying," he says finally.

"Wanna go…" Dean wiggles his jaw experimentally, waggles his tongue, trying to make it less thick. It doesn't really help. "Wanna go t'bed."

"Okay." Sam tosses the cotton wad in the direction of the trash and reaches for Dean.

" _Sammy._ " Dean pushes the hair back from Sam's eyes so he can get a good, naked look. "Wanna go to bed _with you._ "

Sam smiles. "Yeah, Dean," he says and puts his shoulder under Dean's. They rise unsteadily and heavily and Dean puts his arm around his brother's waist. For the first time since L.A., Sam doesn't flinch. "Okay."

"Sammy?" It's only two or three feet from the armchair to the bed, but it feels like a football field.

"Yeah?" They get to the bed's edge and Sam lowers Dean down and then kneels to start untangling Dean's bootlaces.

"M'really sorry."

Sam looks up and the line of his mouth softens. "I know. I'm sorry too." He tugs off Dean's boots and then helps Dean out of his jeans. When Dean's down to boxers and bandages, he eases Dean back on the bed. Dean grabs Sam's arm hard as he can. Sam smoothes his hair with the other hand. "We'll figure it out," he says. "Close your eyes."

Dean does.

**Author's Note:**

> Gratitude to offtheceiling and mona1347 for beta services.


End file.
